It would be an odd life, a strange life, but one worth it, so long as he could avoid thinking about his knapsack and that envelope, up there in the overhead bin.
He had one more glass of champagne, and then slept the rest of the way home.
His apartment was in an old house, built near the Merrimack River in Newburyport, Massachusetts. He knew he paid an extra hundred dollars a month for the privilege of a river view, and most days he thought it was worth it. He sat in his office, brooding, staring at the piles of papers, books, and file folders that represented a book in progress, a book that was months, if not years, away from being finished. Kevin powered up his computer, looked at the little folder icon that represented his months of work. Two Richards was going to be the name of it, contrasting Richard III with Richard Nixon. And damn that Lancaster character — he knew he was nowhere near completing it on time and in the way he wanted it done. At the beginning, he had wanted a dark, brooding book, full of facts and contrasts. A book that would safely secure his tenure, would at last make a mark in the world. And now?
Now it was stuck in the mud, just like Lancaster had said.
Sitting in his dark office, he usually got a feeling of peace and tranquility, here among his books and papers. But not this evening, not after that strange meeting at the Tower. Those people — he doubted Lancaster could have pulled everything off on his own — had poked and pried into his life, knew almost everything about him. He picked up the envelope from his desk. Such a choice. Continue working on Two Richards, or dive into the ravings of a lunatic.
He looked up on the wall, where a tiny framed portrait of the Bard looked down at him. “Old Will,” he said aloud, “did you ever have days like this? With odd people and noblemen coming to you, demanding you write about them or their families or adventures? Did you?”
The portrait remained silent. Of course. If Will had started talking to him, Kevin would have gotten up and driven to the hospital, demanding to be admitted.
Things were odd, things might be mad, but they weren’t that bad.
Not yet.
He picked up the envelope, took a letter opener, and slit open the top.
Inside were three sheets of blank white paper, folded over. Inside was another cashier’s check, drawn on the Midlands Bank, for three thousand pounds. About five thousand dollars, give or take. And beside the check and the paper were two 8-by-10 glossy black-and-white prints, also folded over. He switched on the overhead lamp on his desk, flattened out both photos. The air in the office seemed to get suddenly cold and damp. Both photos he recognized, though he had never been at either location in his entire life. The first showed a black open-top Lincoln limousine parked outside a hospital. Police officers and reporters and other people were clustered around the luxury car, their mouths open in shock, some of the people holding up hands to their faces. It looked like a bright and sunny day, and near the car was the emergency room entrance to the hospital.
But of course. Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas. November 22, 1963.
The second photo was of a crowded hallway in a building of some sort, people clustered about, some reporters standing on chairs or tables, trying to get a better view, police officers trying to hold the crowd back. A man was on the ground, and only his feet were visible. As in the other photo, the people’s faces were almost the same, mirroring shock, disbelief, anger.
And of course, the second photo was the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. June 4, 1968.
America’s two young princes. Murdered.
He stared at the photos for a long time, knowing of the official stories, the ones that said both men, both young princes, had been cut down by deranged men with dark passions and grudges. Kevin had never really paid that much attention to the various conspiracy theories and stories, but now, since his meeting with Lancaster... He looked again at the faces of the people in the crowds. Citizens of a nation, confident that their leaders and rulers were freely elected every two, four, or six years. Not a nation as in Shakespeare’s time, ruled by royalty and extended families, with long knives and longer memories.
But what was the point of the two photos? What was their meaning? Back at the Tower, Lancaster said that only leads would be provided. Not information. Not direct clues. No, just leads, so that Kevin would have to work and work at it to get the leads to uncovering the story of the century, and perhaps the story of the millennium.
He sighed, went back to looking at each photo, sparing a glance up at the print of Shakespeare.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he grumbled as he picked up the first photo.
Kevin woke with a start, tangled up in his sheets and blankets. A dream had come to him, a dream of running along a muddy path, chased by wraiths armed with long knives and pikes, closing in on him. He rubbed at his eyes and mouth, feeling his legs tremble from the memory of the dream. He rarely ever had nightmares, but this one had been a doozy. He rolled over and sat up, looking out at the night. Like his office, his bedroom had a view of the Merrimack River, and he could make out the red and green navigation lights of a fishing craft, heading out to the cold Atlantic for a hard day of fishing.
He rubbed at the base of his neck, wondering what about the dream had disturbed him so. He had spent several hours holed up in his office before going to bed. He had looked at each photo until he was almost cross-eyed. He had gone on the Internet and had quickly been sucked into the strange world of conspiracies and plots. A few Web sites he had gone to had even hinted at the story Lancaster had been peddling, about powerful interests and families ruling the world, but those sites had gone off the edge with racist nonsense about religious cabals.
After a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese and an hour decompressing before the television, he had gone to bed and had instantly gone to sleep, until that dark dream had come upon him.
What in the hell was he doing? he thought. An obscure English teacher at an even more obscure college, supposedly holding the key to a worldwide conspiracy? Please. No doubt he had fallen in league with some elaborate prank of some eccentric Englishman, trying to gain some amusement by making Kevin run around like a fool, chasing down spirits and ghosts.
Spirits and ghosts, just like the wraiths chasing him in that dream, wraiths that were frightening and uniform in their appearance...
Uniform.
That thought stuck with him. Why?
Uniform. Uniform wraiths, armed and heading toward him...
He stumbled out of bed, almost fell as a sheet tripped him up, and went back to his office, switching on the lights. The office looked strange, illuminated at such a time in the morning, but he didn’t care. He grabbed both photos, took a magnifying glass, and started looking. His chest started thumping, and the hand holding the magnifying glass began shaking. He took deep breaths, tried to calm down, and looked again.
Dallas, Texas. Outside the hospital, holding back part of the crowd. A man dressed in a policeman’s uniform, nose prominent, a nice profile shot.
Los Angeles, California. In the hallway of a hotel, holding back part of the crowd. A man dressed in a policeman’s uniform, nose prominent, a nice profile shot.
In both pictures, there’s an odd expression on the face, different from the crowd about him, those people shocked and scared and horrified.
The expression... Happiness? Sadness? Grief?
He blinked his eyes, looked again. It was the same man. Had to be. And what would be the chances that a police officer would be in Dallas the day JFK was killed, and would leave town and get a job in Los Angeles as a police officer, and then be present at the time RFK was killed?